


To Be Filled Later

by WeirdAlterEgo



Series: The Road to a Big Happy Family [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Butt Plugs, Cock Warming, Come Inflation, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Drugs, Eventual Happy Ending, Gang Rape, M/M, Prostate Milking, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicide Attempt, Vibrators, Whumptober 2020, all 31 days in a single fic, if this needs more tags pls yell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeirdAlterEgo/pseuds/WeirdAlterEgo
Summary: "I have your son, Detective," Ra's says, "and I wish to return him to you.""I don't seem to be missing any of my children." Comes Bruce's voice, gravelly and amused through the speaker.Ra's feels pity for the boy, that the Bat is so obtuse he has to say, "I'd suggest you get in touch with young Timothy then," before he disconnects the call.Half an hour later, Bruce calls him back.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Dick Grayson, Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Series: The Road to a Big Happy Family [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101701
Comments: 39
Kudos: 316





	1. It Sucks to be Tim

**Author's Note:**

> First of all let me thank my wonderful beta and enabler bionerd2point0, who is working tirelessly to beta this 17k words of a monstrosity.
> 
> I've another possible beta to help us out, because... well, this is a bit too much for us. :)
> 
> That means that only the first pairing happens here: Tim/Ra's. Updates will happen when my lovely beta(s) reach the checkpoints.
> 
> But there will be a happy ending, because my lovely beta loves them. And I'm already writing the sequel, so.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ra's knows all. Tim's fucked.

Tim isn’t sure how the ninjas get the drop on him. He’d been fighting off their attacks since he was a teen, so at this point it’s practically a guarantee that he would win each altercation. Eventually. This time, though, he is caught, bound, and sedated before he has a chance to press his communicator, or the panic button. This does not bode well.

He wakes up to the sensation of being carried. The tips of his shoes drag against a hard surface. He is still groggy, as he takes in his surroundings. He sees shiny rock left and right, above and below. Cave system, he thinks, possibly somewhere underground. The ninja on either side of him take no notice of his change in consciousness as they drag him down the corridor.

A door comes into view ahead of them, and the ornate carving of the Demon's Head proudly displayed on it has his fingers scrabbling weakly to try and trigger any piece of his hidden tech to send a distress signal. Soft cloth meets his fingertips and he comes to the sudden and startling realization that he’s been stripped of his uniform and is wearing a simple shirt and pants of a light material.

He stamps down the seed of panic that threatens to rise from the back of his mind, even as his options dwindle right in front of his blurry eyes. He can do this. He has done this countless times. Ra's has a soft spot for him. He can surely talk himself out of it _somehow_.

Ra’s is indeed waiting for him, sitting smugly on his throne, a triumphant smile on his face as he surveys Tim getting deposited, kneeling (and falling in a heap, because he’s still kitten-weak) at his feet before the dais.

“Ah, Detective. How lovely that you could join me,” he greets Tim with a jovial tone, but behind that smirk lurks something else. Something dark and sinister. Either that, or Tim has been dosed thoroughly. Both are valid options.

Even though the chamber is almost oppressively warm, Tim breaks into goosebumps and shivers.

Information on the al Ghuls have been scarce of late. The Demon's Head had seemingly gone to ground and been laying low for at least a year. Tim has no idea what he got dragged into, only that it’s bad. _Very_ bad.

"It feels less lovely from my end. What do you want, Ra's?" Tim asks, feeling wrong-footed. Defensive.

He had other plans for today. Three meetings, damage control due to Damian’s newest blunder, and he needed to re-bug the main office at Arkham that night. He had hoped he could drop by on Dick, too, if he had the time. They needed to talk over the huge argument they had due to Damian. These days, everything was about Damian. Ra's hellspawn is lucky Tim is still willing to offer him a helping hand, is all he's saying.

Ra's just smirks down at him. Tim really doesn't like this. Where is the traditional evil monologue when he needs it?

Ra’s motions to the ninjas, and Tim is picked up like a sack of potatoes and carried out of the room before he can stutter out more than a surprised "what the hell?!"

He tries to trip a ninja and wrestle himself out of their hold as soon as they round the first corner, but they are ready for him. They anticipate his _every move_. It's eerie. It’s unsettling. This _does not bode well._

Cold dread fills him, even as he tries to tamp it down. He gives himself a single minute to let it wash over him, and then he cuts off his emotions as much as he can. He needs his mind sharp, if he wants to get out of this.

Tim is taken to a sleeping chamber, thrown in semi-gently, then locked in. The chamber looks as if it was carved from the cave itself. A pit in the center of the space is filled with pillows and blankets--a bed? And there’s a basin against one wall filled by a steady stream of water trickling down the wall. A brief investigation reveals a hole in the bottom of the basin that keeps it from overflowing. Above that are a series of holes, smaller than a man’s hand, and spaced wide apart, offering light but no escape.

The worst part, however, is that one entire side of the chamber is walled off by evenly spaced bars, leaving him on full display to anyone who so much as peeks down the hall, and revealing the room for what it truly is: a cell.

But as the hours pass, nobody comes to check on him. He’s left with nothing to do but entertain himself, and so, he begins to plot.

When the natural light wanes, Ra’s comes to him.

He’s flanked by two ninja, one carrying a chair, the other a plate of food that smells heavenly and makes Tim suddenly realize that he is very, _very_ hungry.

“Detective,” Ra’s says as he settles in on the other side of the bars. At his wave, the plate is put down at a little folding table to his right, a table Tim had not noticed being carried in.

Dammit! This is bad. He needs to _focus_.

The food, he notes idly, is out of his reach. He looks back up at Ra’s, who watches him expectantly.

“Is it now time to reveal your masterplan?” Tim asks tiredly, cracking a smile. What else is he to do?

“Indeed, Detective. But first, let me feed you.”

Tim is so confused. He thought there would be threats. There would be... something more sinister. Instead, he gets locked up and fed dinner.

He reaches for the plate through the bars, only for Ra’s to pull it further away. Before Tim can ask though, he picks up a pastry and leans over, offering it.

Tim stares. On one hand he is certain Ra’s has either gone mad or has an ulterior motive (when _doesn’t_ he?), but what else is he to do? Piss off the villain of the week before he even knows what is going on? Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t already have Tim where he wants him. _Right?_

Tim makes the decision. If he wants to stay in fighting shape, his body needs sustenance. This comes with the added bonus of placating said villain enough to reveal his masterplan. What’s a little humiliation here and there? (So long as Damian _never_ hears of this. _Ever._ ) So he leans over and bites into the pastry, taking it from expertly manicured fingers.

Ra’s hums, satisfied. "Very good, Detective," he praises as he lifts another one, offering it through the bars.

Tim humors him this time, too, savoring the food while he has the chance. But he refuses to bend down for the third, staring down at Ra's, waiting him out.

"Very well." Ra's says with a smile like a shark's. "What would you like to know?"

"Why am I here, Ra's? What is it that you want from me?"

The man leans back in his chair, dismissing his ninjas.

" _You_ , Detective. That's what I want from you. That's why you are here."

"We've been over this." Tim says, feeling his patience fraying. "I won't work for you."

"I wasn't talking about working, Detective." The lascivious smile leaves little to the imagination, and it leaves Tim reeling.

"That's... but I'm...” Tim heaves in a breath, trying to wrap his head around what Ra’s is implying. “That's a lot of effort for one person. Not to mention drawing the attention of my whole family. Are you sure you wish to do that?"

The man chuckles. "My dear, _darling_ Timothy. I have studied the ways of your family for years. I know all of your codewords, I have access to every server the Bat owns. I have orchestrated skirmishes between you and the league, just to observe your every move. There is _nothing_ I do not know about you. I have been waiting for just the right opportunity. An opportunity which presented itself when you stormed out of the cave yesterday. One of my men is running around the world wearing your face and your mask, keeping his distance from your whole family, checking in only when he must do so, just as you would after such a monumental disagreement you had with your family. Nobody even realizes you are missing. _Nobody_ is coming for you."

Tim swallows. This must be a lie. Ra's is trying to get him to give in. He knows this rationally, but goosebumps still break out all over his skin and a cold lump settles in his throat. They will be here for him shortly, he tells himself. And if not, he will find a way out. He _will_.

Ra's smiles at him, all teeth, as he offers another pastry.

Tim bites down, almost chomping through a finger, and feels a vicious pleasure when Ra's pulls back _fast_.

***

Days pass like this.

Tim's only food comes from Ra's fingers. When he refuses to bite, offers his hand instead, food is taken away. Hope still lives in him, so he agrees to the charade to keep his strength up.

***

Ra's hands the first book to him on the third day.

Tim glances at it after the man is gone, skims through it, then blanches and throws it through the bars. No matter how bored he is, this manipulation tactic is too obvious for him to fall for. Ra’s must be losing his edge.

The rest of the books just show up when he wakes. They all cover the same topic, from multiple cultures. Romantic relationships between older men and nubile, inexperienced young boys. Throwing them out doesn't help. No matter what he does, they show up in his cell again.

He doesn't want them. Doesn't like them. Refuses to entertain the idea, even. Not with _Ra's,_ at any case.

***

A month passes by, and the hope within him slowly dies until he has to admit no one is coming for him. It’s a slow realization that suddenly hits him one day as Ra's sits across him, a chessboard pressed against the bars between them. Tim is effortlessly cornered, beaten. He didn't expect this, just as he didn't expect to be so used to being hand fed that he still has a mouthful of a spicy, meaty thing Ra's must have put in his mouth while he wasn't even aware.

His brain shorts out.

He blows up.

He watches as if from a distance as his hands grab the chessboard and fling it against the bars, trying to puncture his own neck with the ragged edges.

The next second ninjas descend upon him, opening the cage and restraining him in a second. The shattered remnants of the chessboard are taken away. A hard punch to his stomach shocks him. When he looks up again, he is alone in his cell, locked in. Ra's is looking solemnly at him.

"We will continue this tomorrow, Detective."

***

Only they don't.

Tim refuses to rise from his bed, save for using the hole that functions as his toilet. He dispassionately looks at the hardened leather "lid" of the hole, knowing he cannot harm himself with it. More's the pity.

Ra's watches him dispassionately when he can't cajole Tim to accept food and entertainment. (Tim does mourn the food, little as he got of it.)

Ra's watches him passively through the bars again the next day, and the next, and the next.

Tim starves himself for a week (bullshit, he was _already_ starving, being fed only once a day, and only meager portions) before he is so weak he cannot move to relieve himself.

He barely feels the dart as he is sedated and taken somewhere else with metal walls.

The restraints tying him to the gurney feel like overkill in his weakened condition, but when he turns his head to look at the leather cuffs he becomes aware of an invasive pressure in his nose traveling right down his throat and down down down. The sensation triggers his gag reflex.

One of the ninja watching him disappears, and in seconds Ra's is by his side, touching his face, combing fingers through his hair with a tender touch.

"Please relax, Timothy." He says tenderly, ignoring Tim's panicked retching. "We had to fit you with a feeding tube. Once you recover enough, we can take you back to your chambers."

Tim shakes his head until the hand drops. He tries to regulate his breathing then, ignoring his gag reflex even as his stomach churns.

Ra's stays with him, sitting next to him, reading from those accursed books.

Tim resolves to find a way to end this one way or another.

***

He is left alone at night. He wakes and sees no ninjas at all. It’s pitch black, but Tim has memorized the layout. Now he just needs to get out of his bindings. It doesn't work. Maybe it’s because he’s so weak, maybe there’s a sedative mixed into the nutrient paste being pumped into his stomach, but he falls asleep while he is still trying to plot his way out.

After days hooked on the food tube, Tim is certain he’s being drugged.

Seems like Ra's is not leaving anything to chance. How very paranoid of him. It's a good thing Tim is good at faking.

He makes his escape when they unlock his bindings, days later. Ra's isn’t here this time, so Tim pretends to be asleep, fingernails digging into his thigh so he doesn't fall asleep.

He’s groggy, but as he breaks out of their hold, he manages to snag something off of a tray. Something _sharp_ that glitters in the artificial light.

He runs out into the corridor, trying to stay ahead of the feet pounding down the hall after him. There’s no way they won’t catch him. He’s weak, his muscle mass diminished, his legs still stiff and protesting.

It is by sheer chance he notices his chambers as he is running by them on the corridor. In a split second he recognizes the books piled up by Ra's. He drops the knife, kicks it until it sails smoothly down into the bed pit, and hopes they won't search him before they deposit him again. _If_ they take him back, that is.

He starts running again, still holding onto that last sliver of hope. He makes it past the corner and he can just see the lights as they flicker in from Ra's throne room before a heavy weight slams into his back and he’s dragged back in, kicking and screaming like a madman.

He expects to be roughed up, but it doesn't happen. He does get thoroughly searched, though.

"He told us you'd do that," a ninja snickers.

Tim's not sure if they’re allowed to talk, but it's not like he could tattle. He just hopes, as he is dragged back into his cell, that the scalpel will stay hidden.

It does. They deposit him, push him down the bed (he is still malnourished, so it is fairly easy) and lock his bars. The scalpel is a solid, cold presence under him.

Ra's comes to him in the evening.

"Won't you let me go?" Tim asks him from his sprawl on the floor. He feels tired. Hopeless. Sad. He knows what he will be forced to do, if Ra's refuses to let him out of his clutches.

Ra's chuckles. "Now why would I do that, my darling Detective? We are so close to the breaking point. Once we push past that, once you let me _break_ you, I shall build you up stronger and brighter than the Bat has ever hoped."

Tim is tired. So tired. He looks around the cell he will die in. The bars that keep him from escaping. The perverted old man pursuing him so relentlessly.

"It doesn't matter what I want at all, does it? To you I'm just a _thing_. A shiny commodity to obtain. Doesn't matter if I say no, you’ll just power through it anyways."

Ra's shifts in his chair, robes pooling in his lap. He is the epitome of the cat who is willing to wait out the cornered mouse. He smirks.

"I know you will be happy with me, Timothy. Happier than you are with your family. Happier than you would be with anybody else. I will give the world to you, my beloved Detective. What use would it be to give you a choice, when I know you would pick the option where you squander your life, your potential. Your love." A tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. "Your treasures."

Tim wants to retch. It feels like that damned tube is still in. The revulsion becomes an oppressive, almost palpable presence. The gaze of Ra's sears him like a brand. Like tar. Like acid.

"I don't want that." He whispers as he turns away.

"You will." Ra's promised, voice deep, dark and syrupy like molasses. "Now come, Beloved. Let me feed you."

Tim's whole body breaks out in goosebumps as bile begins to rise at _that_ word.

"I'm never going to accept food from you, Ra's. I'd sooner die than to become your... _Beloved_.”

He listens to the older man shift behind him.

"Strong words, Detective. I hope you will take tonight to reconsider. I have less... _gentle_ methods to persuade you with."

Tim is glad those options will not be his problem. He longs to look at the knife, to touch it and ascertain it’s still there, but he resists. Can’t reveal his hand so close to the finish line. _His_ finish line.

Shuffling feet signals Ra's’ departure. Tim doesn’t move. He waits, he waits until there’s just a sliver of light before he turns over.

The corridor in front of his cell is empty.

He shuffles around until he can roll down into the bed, hand going to encircle the stolen scalpel.

He thinks about his dead parents. His adoptive family. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Steph, Cass, the damned Gremlin. He thinks about the Titans. Wonders if they ever would find out what happened to him. He cries a little, just a tiny bit, and then he hardens his resolve.

The first cut is easy. Sure, it hurts like a bitch (of course it does), but that's the easy part. The second wrist is harder. His grip is weak from the damaged tendons, and he can barely hold the knife steady.

He ends up clenching the handle between his teeth as he drags the blade across his skin, cutting deep enough for his fingers to go lax and numb.

Satisfied, he turns to his stomach and tucks his lax hands under the bedding as much as he can before laying his head on the pillow. His last thought is _please don't let him put me into the Pit_.

***

Tim wakes up, swaddled in cotton.

No.

His arms, his eyes report, are swaddled in cotton. The rest of him is naked under luxurious blankets.

He tries to shift, only to discover wide cuffs around his ankles and forearms that restrain him spread eagle to the bed. His throat convulses around the damn feeding tube. He has to stop waking up like this, he thinks wryly, before he _remembers_.

As he looks around, his stomach sinks. The color scheme of the room, green, gold and black doesn't bode well for him. Neither does his very failed attempt to escape this hell. All his efforts had done was postpone the inevitable.

Hours pass. Hours where Tim notices the lovely surprise of a catheter.

He is staring at the unevenly carved ceiling, dead-eyed, when Ra's al Ghul strides into the room to fix him with an indecipherable stare.

"You gave me quite the scare, Timothy," he says quietly as he approaches. The bed dips under his weight as he sits next to Tim. One jeweled hand reaches out to lay over Tim's beating heart. "You have been bedridden for so long, I was worried you would never wake up. At least, not without the intervention of the Lazarus Pit."

Tim blanches at the thought of the toxic green water. He knew it was a possibility, yet he still mourns his failed attempt to end his life, to end this captivity.

"Please," he begs. He actually, honest-to-god begs the Demon's Head. "Please let me go. I won't give in no matter what you do, you see it now, right? Please just let me go!"

Ra's mouth thins out. His deceptively soft, caring look slips right off his face. His eyes bore into Tim, hard like flint, burning green green green. His fingers clench down Tim's naked chest, his sharp nails digging into his skin.

"I will not," he states, practically spits it in Tim's face. "I will never let go of you, my Beloved."

Tim shivers in revulsion, and unbidden, he begins to cry. It sets off his gag reflex around the tube in the back of his throat. He sees Ra's move before he feels the pinch, and then he is under, under and _gone._

***

When he comes to again, he notices there are less wrappings around his wrists, just a thin layer of gauze. As he twitches his fingers, they move. He isn't sure why he was worried about nerve damage. It's not like he would leave Ra's clutches alive. _Or undead_ , his mind whispers, the image of the accursed pit looming. He would _never be able to escape the lecherous madman._

As he shifts, a throbbing on his chest registers. No, not his chest. His nipples.

He struggles, shimmying as much as his ties allow, until the sheets peel away from his chest. He doesn’t understand what he’s seeing at first, stares horrified at his pierced nipples, until his brain processes it.

Golden hoops run through his perked up nubs and when he looks further down he sees marks on his skin. Purple bruises bloom on either side of his hips.

_No._

_Surely he would’ve woken up._ He wants to scream and weep. His mind shuts down, lest he goes insane.

When Ra's comes in, he smiles at Tim. It’s the smile of a shark smelling blood in the water. "Ah, Beloved, I'm so glad you woke up."

He gets closer to the bed and lays a proprietary hand over Tim's sheet-clad, flaccid penis.

Tim chokes.

Ra's unsnaps a few of the restraints to turn him gently to the side and lets him retch, pulling out the tube while Tim heaves. He rubs Tim's back like the touch alone doesn't set him off again.

"Please let me go," Tim begs when he can talk again. "You must know I’d never give in. You must know I'd never feel anything but revulsion for you. I will never love you. I will never accept your feelings. You know it’ll only end in my death. Please." Tim's voice shakes as he whispers "I'm begging you. _Just let me go._ "

Ra's mouth thins. Without warning he flips Tim over.

Tim hands hands fly out to brace himself so he doesn't end up with his face in the pillows, but Ra's pushes him down. He hears and feels as his restraints are redone, locking him in that compromising position. He struggles weakly to prolong the inevitable, but Ra's is clearly stronger, faster, and more in control of his own body. And Tim's.

"I waited," he says as Tim hears him move around the room, then the bed dips again. Right behind Tim. Right behind his sheet covered butt that's high up in the air.

He claws the sheets trying to escape in cold terror as Ra's goes on.

"I waited for you to be awake to make love to you. To show you how much I appreciate you, my darling Detective. I could have had my way with your body, if I wanted, but I abstained from breaching that final barrier because I knew that it would be so much sweeter if you were aware."

Ra’s whips the sheet away from Tim's body. Fingers, strong, _big_ fingers pry his cheeks apart, and something cold and thin is pressed into his anus.

He writhes to try and escape as he feels a slimy liquid pour into him. His teeth start chattering. He feels icy cold, even in the oppressive heat. He thinks it's shock settling in. He is... his gasps sound like they are coming from further and further away as his vision goes wobbly, and his breaths quicken.

He tries his breathing exercises, ignoring the way the older man caresses an asscheek with a broad, proprietary hand, a fingertip rubbing dangerously close to Tim’s hole.

The thing is taken out of his ass and fingers take its place.

He thinks they go in too easy. Surely he shouldn't be able to take two of Ra's fingers just off the bat? But he does. Another joins them, and then another. Four thick fingers of Ra’s scissor ruthlessly in Tim's passage until they get yanked out without warning.

Tim hears someone crying, wailing in the background. They are begging, screaming, choking the words “please” and “no” and all their possible variants. Tim thinks it might be him. He wonders why Ra's won't just stop.

But Ra's doesn't.

Tim feels the fat head as it catches on his rim again and again as Ra's tries to push it in. Tim thinks he is cackling hysterically as Vlad Dracula flashes in his mind. The Impaler. He thinks of him, of his penchant for impaling men on huge wooden poles, as Ra's bears down on him, relentlessly pushing and pushing until his hands clamp down on Tim's sides, pulling him back with a hard yank.

Tim screams as Ra's thrusts into him in one quick, forceful push.

The older man gives him no time to adjust to the intrusion, grinding further in instead while he is still pulling on Tim's hips. Within seconds Tim feels him bottom out, muscular, warm thighs rubbing against his shin.

Tim retches empty stomach acid.

Ra's doesn't seem to care, or perhaps he doesn’t even notice. He starts fucking Tim, hips pistoning without a care for his wellbeing or comfort, the his wide girth massaging Tim’s prostate with each stroke.

Tim's cock, to his horror, begins to rise. He is a crying, disgusting mess. A simple meat puppet, pulled and pushed by the thrusts of the man above him. He feels like a _thing_ as Ra's all but bends him in half, uncaring, each plunge jarring his whole body.

The begging has stopped at least. Now he only hears hiccoughing crying, and the occasional whimper.

Ra's plows on.

Tim rises to full hardness, unbidden, unwanted. _Disgusted._ His cock slaps against his stomach with a wet sound with every thrust. He can feel Ra's balls slapping against his skin. He can hear the squelching of every thrust.

He dry heaves again, but his stomach is empty of even bile.

Ra's picks up the pace, chasing his own release.

Tim comes, his gut still spasming as his stomach and thighs get coated in semen and it makes him sob all the harder.

The begging starts up again when Ra's doesn't stop, just fucks Tim’s sensitive hole through the aftershocks.

Closing his eyes, Tim bears with it until with a few short thrusts he is flooded with Ra's’ come.

He wants to black out, but he can't. He can feel _it_ oozing out of him when the older man pulls out. He’s weak and pliant as Ra's arranges him flat, face-down on the bed, restrained again. The sheet is thrown over him and he’s left there, lying in his sick and covered in come.


	2. Going on Vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce comes to save Tim, and gives him a ride home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd still like to thank my betas, bionerd2point0, and Satairev, who helped me make sense and worked tirelessly to wrangle this beast into a readable shape.
> 
> Poor Bio, you should see all the pink lines... :D

It's ninjas who come back to take Tim away. He’s dirty, bruised and covered in semen. He can't find it in himself to care if they see him in this condition. He lets them drag him wherever they want.

‘Wherever’ ends up being a bathing chamber, where he gets scrubbed clean and possibly loses a layer of skin in the process. 

They hold his ass open, spraying water up into him, having him empty into a chamber pot. They repeat the process until the water runs clear. Tim is too numb at this point to feel mortified.

They dry him off, then drag him to a new room. A room that’s empty, save for two tables and an ob-gyn chair. He’s so stunned he gets sedated without noticing.

***

He wakes up, and it is dark.

 _No_. 

Not dark. He just can’t see through the hood over his head. 

He can feel his old friend, the feeding tube, running through his nose and winding down to his stomach. This time, luckily, his gag reflex isn’t quite so strong. 

There’s a pressure in his ears, it doesn’t take him long to puzzle out that his ears have been plugged. He can’t hear a single sound, save for the roaring of his own blood. 

He feels another pressure lower down. A pressure deep inside him. He can’t find it in him to feel horrified at this point that someone is giving him an expert prostate massage.

He surmises that he has been installed in the chair he last saw. Restraints hold him securely to the padded chair with little give. His hips are bare and legs spread wide. Wide enough that a man can stand between them and he can't feel them. 

He feels a catheter in his cock. He wonders how long he was out for, but doesn't really care.

His toes curl as he feels himself come. It's weird. It doesn't bother him anymore. Neither does the unrelenting pressure on his prostate that continues. He’s sensitive down there, but he doesn't feel the pain. It's just a vague discomfort that ebbs away when he feels himself grow hard again. It's... not that bad, honestly.

All is dark, and quiet and comfy.

He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

***

Tim gets used to life this way. 

At certain times he is milked. His prostate is massaged through orgasms and overstimulation until he comes dry. Then the person goes away and leaves Tim alone to drift. Things are soft and dark there, until they aren't.

The hood is yanked off his face, and he’s momentarily blinded by the light. The plugs get _wrenched_ from his ears by strong fingers.

"Timothy." 

He hears the hated voice before a searing pain makes him look down. He’s been burned. His skin is blistered, angry and red, but the brand is still clear against his skin. 

Ra’s mark. 

The older man bows his head down to kiss it before he withdraws far enough to mount Tim. 

The chair creaks as he is fucked. His head knocks a staccato against the hard back of the contraption with every thrust. He sees a shape looming over him and hands grab the back of his milking chair before the thrusts get _brutal_. His head snaps back. He hears a crack.

***

He wakes up to something hard and ungiving in his ass and a hand smearing ointment onto the back of his head. It feels cold. There must be a chunk of his hair missing. He is strangely miffed about that.

He takes naps, but they keep waking him up. Ra's comes back after a while and fucks into his prone body, but gentler, a huge hand cradling the back of his head. 

Tim _hates_ it.

When Ra's finishes, he pushes the thing up his ass again. A plug, he thinks. He has no clue why Ra’s thinks he needs one, but he doesn't care anymore. He goes away in his head, and comes back to a swollen stomach and Ra's stroking it reverently.

An image of the Alien franchise comes to him, unbidden, and he almost laughs. A chest burster would be much preferable to... this. To Ra's lovingly caressing his stomach inflated with his come. Complete, utter nonsense, he thinks as he goes under, retreating far into his head again.

When he wakes up next his stomach is flat again. He’s glad.

They don't use the hood and the earplugs any more when they milk him. He doesn't care. 

He comes back less and less often to check on things. It’s just more of the same. On most days, he’s milked. On some, Ra's visits him to fuck him hard and bloats his stomach with come. 

He's never there long enough to know what happens with it once Ra's is done. Tim’s morbidly curious, but not enough to hang around when he doesn’t have to.

***

Ra's miscalculated. 

He’s not sure how long it has really been since he’s failed so spectacularly, but he knows the boy has him beaten. He mourns the loss of Timothy. He did not believe the young man, thought him too soft, too young, too weak to manage it, but young Timothy is gone.

He placed the young man in the Chair in hopes of finally breaking him, only for the boy to trick _him_ in turn. His Detective has retreated so far inside his head that nothing Ra's does can pull him back, nor break him.

He tries withdrawal first, changing the routine. He hopes by stopping the influx of pleasure, the boy would wade out of his haze. 

He doesn't. 

The empty shell of his Beloved whines, hips twitching and looking for fingers, a plug, or Ra's member to fill it up, to pleasure it. Ra’s body burns, yearns for that lovely young body, while his mind mourns.

He tries whipping next. 

The boy’s thighs and back are a lovely pink and angry red, a few lines of blood trickling down. But his Timothy is still in hiding.

He turns to cajoling instead. He talks. He promises to return the boy to his family. He promises he would invite the Bat here if he would just show a sign. Speak a name. Look like he is not a vacant automaton.

Timothy still eludes him.

Ra’s is not proud of what he does next, but he is a prideful man not used to being spurned or denied. He has his ninjas take the boy, one after the other, ordering, threatening, pleading with the young Detective to return. Nothing helps.

Ra's is beaten.

He orders his men to ready the incubators. He wished. He really, honestly wished he could break Timothy, to build him up and mold him in his preferred image, but there is always an alternative. 

_His_ Timothy will be _his_ from the start. He will be safe from the Bat's teachings. He will lay his head gently in Ra's lap as he reads for the boy, as he plays with his hair. They would kiss tenderly while the world turned.

At least he has DNA samples enough to clone himself a million Timothies.

There's just one last call to make.

***

"I have your son, Detective," Ra's says, "and I wish to return him to you."

"I don't seem to be missing any of my children." Comes Bruce's voice, gravelly and amused through the speaker.

Ra's feels pity for the boy, that the Bat is so obtuse he has to say, "I'd suggest you get in touch with young Timothy then," before he disconnects the call.

Half an hour later, Bruce calls him back.

***

Bruce arrives for his ward right on time. 

Ra’s takes all the possible precautions, which is why he is already speeding away from his broken Beloved, with his own little bird gestating in a tube behind him on the plane, speaking to the Bat through comms.

The Batman is understandably furious, but restrained while Ra’s explains that he is returning what’s left of Timothy to him as a token of goodwill, instead of disposing of the boy’s empty shell.

He signs off then, but keeps the surveillance camera on. He still has a sliver of hope that the boy will awaken. There is _always_ place for (one more) Timothy in Ra's bed.

Bruce is seething right until he walks into Timothy’s current rooms and sees the chair. Takes Ra’s’ gifts with lax fingers.

Ra’s ends the surveillance when the boy does not react. Not to being milked in front of his adoptive father, not to getting pulled from the chair, and not to being carried to safety.

Truly, _that_ Timothy is gone.

***

Bruce steps into the room and balks. His mind, honed to perfection and refined over years of training just... shuts down at the view. The only thing clunking at the bottom, the single scrap of thought he has left is _oh no. Tim!_

His boy, his brilliant little soldier is strapped into what appears to be a modified OB/GYN chair with tubes coming from it. Tim’s mostly naked, which should not be an issue in the oppressive heat, but the ninja standing between his spread and strapped-in legs, with his arm moving suspiciously, _is_. 

Bruce's mind breaks a little at the small, vulnerable gurgle coming from the chair's occupant as he twitches a bit. As he gets closer he realizes that one of the tubes is a catheter, full of white, as Tim's penis flags in front of his horrified eyes.

The arm of the ninja is still pistoning as Bruce drags himself forward, forcing himself to keep from freezing entirely. He steps up next to the faceless man and gets an unhindered view of Tim’s slick hole, two gloved fingers moving rhythmically in and out of that hole, no doubt massaging Tim’s prostate to the point of overstimulation. 

Tim’s cock stiffens before his very eyes, hips twitching languidly until he comes again with a soft sigh.

Bruce swallows down the bitter taste of bile, his panic and revulsion trying to physically manifest as he pulls the man back in a swift move and nerve strikes him. He can barely restrain himself from killing the man, even though he knows Ra’s’ ninja are little more than puppets. The image of Tim being effortlessly and ruthlessly milked has now seared into his mind forever.

He steps up to Tim, taking it all in: the noticeable loss of muscle, the pierced nipples joined by a delicate chain, the shiny scarred brand on a pectoral, the feeding tube and catheter. 

He stares into Tim’s vacant eyes, the drooling, gaping mouth with the slim gag keeping his tongue pressed down (he must have resisted or swallowed it, Bruce's mind supplies, unbidden).

It feels like his eyes are drawn down against his will to examine Tim’s gaping hole, the muscle twitching weakly, glistening and pink. His hands reach out to touch without his permission. It seems healthy, if a bit stretched, and he can’t see any tears or lesions. 

Ra's has trained his men too well.

He is approached by another ninja, this one holding out an ornate wooden box for him. 

Bruce takes it after some hesitation.

"The Demon's Head wants you to know that you have five minutes to vacate this facility," the man says in perfect English. "Also, he advises that you keep the boy plugged up for his own comfort, should you decide to take him with you."

He pulls back quickly and flees the room. 

Bruce lets him go, mind awash with thoughts. Did Ra’s think he would abandon his boy to _this?!_ Did he think he would abandon his boy again, under any circumstances?

But. Time. 

He does not trust Ra's wouldn't try something if he passed the time limit. He cracks the box open, feeling a peculiar mixture of _feelings_ in his overloaded brain. He wants to shout. He wants to scream inarticulately. He wants to throw the _thing_ as far away from Tim as he can. But Ra's said... it was for his boy's... _comfort_. 

He wouldn't believe it, if Tim wasn’t writhing now, kitten-weak, drooling mouth turned down around the gag, inquisitive noises coming from him as if looking for something.

Bruce braces himself as he takes the jeweled, golden plug from the exquisite ruby red velvet lining of the box, its folds reminiscent of a spread... 

He takes one look at it as he rights it, and then he pushes it against Tim's glistening, twitching hole, surprised at the ease when it smoothly slides in, stretching delicately around the widest part and practically sucking the remaining inches in.

Bruce swallows, feeling a telltale, _disgusting_ tightness inside his suit pants. He wishes he could do anything but stamp it down as he puts the box (not empty, it still has a few USB sticks and miscellaneous items in it) on a desk holding medical equipment next to the chair, but time is of the essence. 

He busies himself as he pulls out the catheter, the feeding tube, and then he undoes the clasps and cuffs. He wishes he could take the piercings out, too, but he doesn't want to hurt his son. There will be time for that later on the Batplane while they are flying home.

He finds a cloth on the desk under some equipment and pulls it out to wrap Tim up. Bruce takes him in his arms, tucks the box on top of Tim's stomach and strides towards the entrance. 

This is something so twisted, so sick, that Bruce never would have thought possible from the older man. He very much wishes to rain vengeance on Ra's al Ghul, but he cannot chance losing Tim forever. 

From the silver lines of scars on the boy's limp wrists and arms, and above all else the position he was found in, (Bruce can extrapolate _a lot_ from that) he knows the boy has suffered much. So, so much.

They make it to the Batplane under the time limit. 

Bruce settles Tim into a seat, mind shorting out a little when he sees the boy wriggling his hips, grinding down on Ra’s golden plug _,_ Bruce's mind supplies. He’s drooling, smiling dreamily at nothing.

Bruce has to adjust his protective cup, feeling immensely disgusted with himself. He all but throws himself into the piloting seat, taking the plane out at breakneck speed.

His stomach churns with revulsion for how his body still reacts against his iron will. He is more aroused than he has been in a long time, simply from watching as his smallest (in stature) child got pleasured. 

He slants his eyes up to the side, to see Tim reflected in the mirror as he weakly wriggles in his seat, mouth turned down again.

Bruce turns back sharply, plugging in the first USB he can grab from the box. He needs a distraction. He needs to be angry, so supremely angry that he has no time for arousal.

He is _not_ prepared for what he sees.

He sees Tim strapped into that chair, being milked. The camera's angle is different, it was shot from somewhere low and to the left, probably a table or a tripod. Tim's body is lax, eyes unfocused as he is milked methodically. Bruce growls as he feels his dick twitch, and he speeds the video up. The camera blinks off when Tim comes dry and the ninja leaves, but turns back on when the process is repeated. Again, again and again. 

The camera must have come with a motion sensor, Bruce thinks, as he tries to observe the surroundings to draw his mind away from the sensual way Tim writhes on screen. How painfully hard Bruce is from seeing it.

The next time though, there are more ninjas in the room. Ra's strides in. He steps up to Tim's prone form, pulls his robe aside and... Bruce has to let go of the console and engage the autopilot so he doesn't wreck it all as he watches Ra's take out his cock and enter Tim with a single, uncaring thrust, dwarfing his slight form as he towers over the boy, fucking into the unresisting form with surprising vigor.

Bruce is disgusted with himself as he realizes his hand is halfway to the latches that release the groin plate. He weaves his fingers together instead, clenching them hard as he watches Ra's finish inside Tim, then pull out and fiddle with something. When he steps back, Tim's hole is filled with something gold. The plug, he realizes, revulsion and hunger swirling in his belly. The screen goes black.

The screen lights up again, to Tim jerking weakly as Ra's approaches. The boy's little penis is straining, hard and red, the plug glinting in the natural light entering the cave. Bruce turns the sound on at minimum, only to be greeted with the dark, cloyingly soft chuckle of Ra's. 

"You will have to come on my cock, Detective, or you won't be coming at all today."

There is no answer but a soft whine. Tim's eyes are open, as is his drooling mouth, but he doesn’t otherwise react.

Ra's steps up to him again, cock already out and stiff, and wrenches the plug out of Tim’s hole before thrusting into him in one swift move. He thrusts quickly, fucking him without touching any other part of Tim's body.

Bruce hears a soft gurgle, and sees Tim's head loll back on screen, hears Ra's chuckle. The older man keeps on fucking into the boy, which does not seem to phase Tim. Soon though, he is whining again, giving soft little mewls as Ra's pistons his hips, thrusting faster and then stilling. 

Tim seems to come as the plug is inserted into him, body bowing up as far as the restraints let him, falling back and mellowing out right after.

Bruce fast forwards again, sees Ra's fuck Tim again and again as the natural light strengthens and weakens, until Tim's belly is rounding up, until the boy is openly crying at every intrusion.

It culminates in a ninja taking Ra's place at the foot of the jerking, twitching boy, holding a pot under the boy's swollen entrance with one hand, pulling the plug out with the other. Bruce watches mutely as semen drips and pours out of Tim's well used entrance as the hand holding the plug presses down on his swollen stomach. He watches until the last drop is out of Tim, and the ninja leaves with the pot.

The next several shots are again of Tim being milked by ninja, and he presses fast forward. He has no need to see that again. The scene changes again, as a ninja...

"It is a reward for good behavior, Timothy," Ra's says from off-screen as the ninja fucks Tim. "Should you wish to rejoin me, all you have to do is respond to me. Look at me, Detective!" the voice almost pleads as Tim is fucked.

But Tim doesn't respond.

When the ninja finishes, another steps up to take his place. 

Bruce tries to see if Tim is responding in any way, but Tim’s only reaction is helpless whimpering and the soft gurgles signifying his aroused and spent state. He sees _nothing_ of his son there.

He skips forward as ninja after ninja fucks Tim, until the boy makes sad noises, until it all stops. Until a ninja comes to pump Tim with what looks like water to clean him out like a damned toy. Bruce watches as the screen goes dark again, light again as another milking session starts. 

The last scene, before the video reaches its end, is of Tim, and just Tim. He lies in the chair, empty and unstimulated. His face is streaked with tears, mouth open, hips twitching as far as his bindings let him, hole loose and pink as it winks at the camera.

“All you have to do is ask,” Bruce hears Ra’s say. “Just ask for it, Detective. Fingers. A plug. _My cock_. Just ask and you will be satisfied.”

Tim doesn’t seem to understand what is asked of him. He writhes in the chair, face red and sobbing like a babe as he seeks stimulation.

Bruce skips ahead, watches as Tim’s bindings rub his skin raw as he becomes more desperate, until a ninja takes up his place at the foot of the chair, milking Tim again. The boy quiets instantly, and the screen goes black shortly after.

Bruce wipes his tired face down.

He is still hard, hasn't flagged at all while watching Tim’s rape and humiliation. _Worse_ , he actually started leaking as he watched as Ra's fucked Tim over and over. He’s disgusted and aroused beyond belief. He looks back at Tim, who is fussing and whining in his chair, squirming, impaled on the plug.

He’s horrified with himself when he makes the decision. 

He pushes out of his chair and goes to the boy, unbuckling his weakly mewling form. Bruce plucks him from the sheet as he carries him back to the pilot seat. 

He has to adjust it a little, to make Tim fit and to give himself space to maneuver the groin plate out of the way.

He drapes Tim over his lap, head against Bruce's shoulder, and pulls the plug out. 

He doesn't even need to be gentle, it comes out so smooth and easy, and then... Tim's rim spreads over the head of Bruce's cock. Hunger and madness overtake him. Bruce wants it so much he’s salivating. His eyes roll back as he pushes up into the smooth silk of Tim's hole. 

His boy moans for him prettily as Bruce fucks up a little, testing. He meets no resistance, Tim is a pliant, smooth vice around him.

His mind goes on vacation then. 

It feels like he is watching from a distance as he fucks up into his boy sitting sweetly on his lap, thrusts so hard Tim bounces. He feels... oh he feels better than he ever has before. This must be what going mad feels like, he thinks. 

He sees drool drip down on his chestplate, sees as Tim's cum sprays right over the bat symbol, dirtying it. He fucks on. He knows Tim can take it, would take it. Is conditioned to take it. To _want_ it _._

May the powers that be forgive him.

Tim comes again before Bruce's speed picks up and he comes inside Tim. He thinks about pulling out, cleaning Tim up and bundling him back into his chair. He knows he should at least do that, even though he has already gone too far. But he knows he wouldn't be able to leave Tim there. He knows he wouldn't be able to stop himself from plucking _his beloved boy_ out of his seat again to bounce him on his cock while he pilots the batplane home.

He cups Tim's delicate head as he strokes his back, already feeling himself firming back up.

Tim spends the flight back to the manor on Bruce's lap, cradled lovingly and _fucked_.

When Bruce finally cleans him up and wraps him back into the sheet, Tim is completely spent, mouth curling up in an angelic smile, eyes still vacant.

***

Alfred is aghast. Bruce can see how hard it hits the old butler. He smooths back Tim’s hair, which has grown noticeably while he was in captivity except for one place at the back of his head. Bruce is reasonably certain he is not imagining that bump, but he will know for certain when the tests come back.

They run Tim through every examination Bruce can think of. He removes several trackers from Tim’s body, tiny things that barely blip on Bruce’s sensors. He makes sure to fry the rest with electromagnetic pulses, because there must be more, he is sure of it.

It turns out that Tim’s skull did have a slight crack, now healed over nicely, and Bruce’s mind runs amuck with possibilities, but there is ultimately nothing he can do to help Tim. 

His boy’s body is healthy, clean, well-nourished, almost ethereal in its litheness as most of his muscle mass has been lost, and there’s no clear physical reason why Tim remains catatonic, he just… is.

By the time Bruce has done X-ray after X-ray and drawn enough blood to test for absolutely everything, Tim is growing listless again. Alfred is holding his head steady with shaking hands, head bowed over the boy, whispering a story about the latest escapade of Batcow, hoping to calm the boy's desperate struggles.

Bruce knows it won’t help. He knows what Tim needs.

“I’ll take him to bed,” Bruce says in a voice he knows Alfred won’t argue with. “I’ll… I’ll set him up with what he will need.”

He doesn’t remove the sheet that has been preserving his son’s modesty, he just wraps him up tighter. He’s just glad Alfred has been looking so hard for a flash of recognition in the boy’s eyes that he missed seeing Tim harden under the sheets. Small mercies.

He throws the readily waiting medical bag over his shoulder and gently picks up his catatonic son at an angle to best hide things from the innocent eyes of his beloved mentor. If he had to tell Alfred the whole story, of what he did to Tim, his adopted son… he wouldn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what Alfred would do, but he knows he should march himself down to Jim Gordon for what he did. What he is about to do. What he will do again and again. Because Tim _needs_. And, if he is brutally honest with himself, because he _wants_ to.

Alfred lets Tim go, eyes immensely sad. “Perhaps I will be up to young Timothy’s room later, to read for him a little.”

“That would be lovely, thank you, Alfred,” Bruce says, shifting Tim, who begins to softly twitch upwards and down, looking for stimulation. “Just… give me some time alone with him, please.”

“I won’t infringe…” Alfred sighs. “Of course I will give you as much as you need. I would never…”

“I know, old chap.” Bruce cuts in smoothly. “I will come down to the dining room when I’ve set him up.”

With that he hefts Tim into a better position, ignores his pathetic whines, and walks up to the lift. Tim needs, and Alfred needn’t see how hard that makes Bruce.


	3. Dick Enters The Fray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick enters the fray (and Timmy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) Thanks where thanks are due: my awesome head beta bionerd2point0, who should be added as a co-author, she removed so many commas so far, and Satairev!
> 
> 2.) I need to apologize to all of you who are waiting for more stories... I will be a bit slow to crank out anything, I've been really, really sick. Probably not Covid (fingers crossed) as I can smell everything and be violently sick even just from the scent of perfume... and projectile vomit.
> 
> Sorry for the TMI, but it has not been a nice week for me. Or a month. I almost ended up in the hospital for an unrelated issue earlier this month, so October is definitely tricking me. BUT! If I were to kick the bucket, or go no-contact, bio has my permission to put up the rest of the story, so you guys are all covered! :D

Bruce lays Tim out in his old bed and wrangles the whining, writhing boy into a nightshirt. Putting in the catheter is harder. Tim instantly pushes up into his hands, a few droplets of the lubricant making everything slippery, which makes the initial insertion much harder than it should be. Bruce makes a mental note to get more practice with this later. 

As soon as Tim is catheterized properly, nightshirt rucked up to his armpits, Bruce stops. Leans back. Reconsiders, even as Tim rubs his smooth, white bottom against his hands.

He can’t fuck Tim in his bed, Alfred would notice it. Nor can he fuck Tim as hard as he did on the plane. Alfred would wonder why Tim looked exerted. He will have to be gentler.

He swallows thickly, throat clicking as he pushes a careful finger into Tim’s hole. It opens up to him without any resistance, so Bruce adds another. And another… and another. For a dark moment he thinks about tucking his thumb in as well, to see if Tim could take his whole fist, then he slams the door closed on that thought.

He pulls the unresisting boy gently into his lap, letting his warm weight rest against his front. The warm press of Tim’s body makes his heart clench now that the heavy armor and chestplate are gone, and he shushes the boy quietly as he slicks up his cock. 

At last, he presses into Tim’s waiting hole, reveling in the gentle press of Tim’s hands against his sides and the sweet little “ah ah ah”s that fall from those plump, drooling lips. 

Tim quiets in an instant.

As Bruce begins to bounce him—gently—in a perverted version of horsey, he catches peeks of his boy’s expression, closed eyes, lax face, vacant smile. It is Tim and yet not wholly Tim at the same time.

Tim comes fast, upper body flopping against Bruce like a ragdoll. Bruce keeps his pace. He understands the routine now. Tim has to be emptied to be satisfied, and he has to be satisfied so that he will rest and stay still for Alfred. So, Bruce keeps it up, keeps the pace and resists the desire to just let go, even though Tim’s silken heat is clenching down on him so wonderfully.

He keeps fucking Tim through his second and his third orgasms, but comes with an agonized groan before he can wait out the fourth. In desperation, he pushes up a finger alongside his softening, _sensitive_ cock, rubbing against Tim’s walls until he finds his prostate and can massage it. Tim undulates over him, pushing back with a soft grunt before he groans and flops bonelessly against Bruce.

Bruce leans down and kisses the crown of Tim’s head.

He cleans up his son, cleans up himself, lays his lovely boy down into his bed and even goes as far as changing the _bag_. Alfred might check it.

***

Bruce plots.

No. 

First, he changes every password and reboots any tech that could have been hacked by Ra’s. He isn’t certain the old man got this deep into the Cave’s servers, but Bruce knows the only reason Ra’s was able to snatch and keep Tim this long without discovery must have been because he had a much better knowledge of their secrets than they have ever suspected.

Briefly, he suspects Damian’s involvement. His inexplicable dislike for Tim and _Tim_ alone is something that Bruce has tried to ignore many times before. He mourns that he did not address it, beats himself up over it. He wonders if Tim and Damian’s relationship had been better, maybe this all wouldn’t have happened.

He broods while he plots. 

The Cave is full of ambient noises (Damian is away and out of the media’s gaze, training with Dick) and there is nobody but him down here. Alfred is still up with Tim, the exhausted boy dozing while the old butler reads to him quietly. His voice drones on in the background, the video feed from Tim's room still up on one of the screens while Bruce goes deep, looking for any sign of Ra’s al Ghul.

It’s early in the morning on that same day when Alfred lays a warm hand on his shoulders. 

“Master Bruce,” he says gently. In it is the question and benediction. They let Tim down. They abandoned him. They didn’t know the horrors he had to survive.

So they damn well should avenge him.

Which just makes it even more frustrating since he can’t find any trace of the plane Ra’s used to escape, or find any rumours of where Ra’s had run off to. The League had gone to ground, and Talia isn’t answering his messages, dammit.

“No luck so far,” he says, wiping a hand down his face. If he doesn’t hear back from Talia soon, he’ll have to involve Damian, and _that_ will not go well.

Alfred hums. “I will ask a few old friends of mine, too.”

Bruce nods, looking over. “Thank you.” Then he pauses and really takes Alfred in. His old friend looks so sad, so tired, his heart aches. “Please take a rest. We will need someone who can watch over Tim at all times.”

“Shall I call in Master Jason?” Alfred offers, and Bruce feels like he’s been doused with ice cold water.

“No. Not yet.” _Or ever_. If anyone in the whole family, Jason would be the one who wouldn’t hesitate to _end_ Bruce if he saw what he had done to Tim. He can’t fail his second son, too. “Let’s see what we can find out first. If Talia won’t reply back, I will need an alternate route to contact her.” 

He doesn’t mention he’d rather use his _other_ son’s connection than to call in the one who wouldn’t bat an eyelash to put a bullet between Bruce’s eyes for putting his hands on _Tim_.

He shudders at the idea and nods to Alfred. “Please go to bed. Ra’s knows we will be looking for him. He won’t slip up yet.”

“Very well,” Alfred agrees. 

Bruce watches his sloped back as he leaves the cave, then he looks up at Tim’s screen.

The boy is fidgeting again, but settles back down after a little. Bruce knows he can’t always be there for him to meet his _need._ He pushes aside his search for Ra’s, so the scripts (face recognition, known alias searches in any database, any movements of known contacts) run quietly in the background while he designs Tim something to help with his condition.

There are toys in the Batcave, so he doesn’t have to go into Gotham to purchase sex aides. He guts a few vibrators to build the mechanism, and uses his own measurements to model a dildo that would be capable of undulating and thrusting at the same time.

3D printing it takes some time, but the medical grade silicone is smooth and perfect when Bruce installs the mechanism inside. It is light out by the time he finishes adding the straps, but Tim seems restless again, so Bruce takes care to take the shortest path up.

***

Tim doesn’t twist out of his hands when Bruce tilts his hips up. He takes Bruce’s erection without a hitch in his breath, smiles as he gets stimulated. Bruce doesn’t hold out for more than two orgasms. He can’t. Too tired, worked up, _horny_. And he doesn’t even have to.

He pulls out of the boy, who wriggles back, trying to catch Bruce’s dick again, only to go still and pliant as Bruce feeds the silicone dildo in. Tim’s passage opens right up, sucking in the toy until it stops at the slightly thinner base. He twitches a little when it doesn’t move, making it harder for Bruce to do up the straps.

Bruce ends up with lubricant all over his clothes as he does up the harness, but he’s satisfied to see it holds very well. He reaches out to the desk for his tablet and starts the script remotely. He knows running it on the batcomputer where any of his family could stumble over it will be a gamble, but this is his best option to start the thing remotely.

Tim gives a happy little moan as the dildo starts pistoning into him. 

Bruce watches for any discomfort, adjusting the speed and depth of the intrusion, the vibration. He does up Tim’s clothes, pulling the sheets to cover him properly, and listens. It wouldn’t do for Alfred to come in investigating a strange noise, after all.

He hits end, and the thrusting stops. 

Tim whines. 

Bruce starts it up again. He already plans for one with sensors built in that would pick up on Tim’s hips shifting restlessly to start pistoning on its own. This way he could remove himself from the equation entirely, however much he still craves to fuck his son.

 _Jason,_ he thinks. _Jason with a shotgun._

Even that doesn’t make him crave Tim any less.

He pulls down the sheets, pulls up Tim’s nightdress and focuses on his pink, fluttering hole as he takes himself in hand and jerks off, hard. He thinks about coming on Tim’s stomach, painting that lovely, fluttering, delicate abdomen white. _His._ And then he is off, curling up in revulsion as he comes in his own hand, wet wipes ready.

“I’m sorry, Tim,” he says as he tucks his lovely boy back into bed, kisses the crown of his head. “I hope you will come back to us.” He sighs. “And I hope, when you do, you will be able to forgive me.”

***

There are absolutely no leads. Talia won’t respond to his coded messages, and it’s beginning to seem like she’s gone to ground as well. Bruce begins to worry.

He absolutely has to call in the reinforcements. _But not Jason._ Jason has murdered for less. He is willing to atone for his crime, but he _cannot, absolutely cannot_ let Jason commit patricide.

He calls back Dick and Damian. Let his youngest son think he is forgiven, it’s a price Bruce is willing to pay. Even if every time his blood son gets out into the public he commits another act of witless arrogance. (He should have raised his son better, to be kind to people. He failed him too. He hopes maybe Dick could do a better job.)

Predictably, Talia cannot ignore her only son, but she is understandably cautious. She won’t meet with Damian either, but acquiesces to a terse exchange of texts.

Yes, she is safe. Yes, she is in hiding. No, she cannot say anything because her father has gone _mad._ She has League assassins ready to take her life if she offers up any sensitive information. No, she has absolutely no clue where Ra’s is, or what he is up to.

And, most worrying of all, she might miss his impending Birthday. 

Damian is upset. He isn’t showing it, but Bruce can read it in the line of his shoulders, the set of his mouth.

As unfortunate as it is, he’s relieved that Damian will be distracted. Hopefully it will give Bruce the time and space he needs to get Dick on board. He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to last all by himself. 

***

“Dick,” he says, inclining his head while he watches Damian make his way up out of the cave. “We need to have a talk.”

“I was wondering what bee was in your bonnet that you called us back so fast. What’s wrong, B?”

“Ra’s kidnapped Tim.”

Dick tenses up, looking around as if he’s already packing for a rescue mission. “Do we know his last location?”

Bruce sighs, shakes his head. He sits down. They need to do this sitting down.

“Dick. Please sit down. Tim is back in his room. That’s not-”

Dick grows more alarmed. “Is he all right?”

“He’s not-” Bruce tries again, building up courage to tell Dick _everything_.

“Oh my god what did Ra’s do with him?!” Dick’s already moving, but Bruce manages to grab his arm to stop him.

“Please let me just finish,” Bruce pleads with him, and Dick shuts up, staring at him with a pale face. “Tim was kidnapped three months ago.”

Dick stares at him. If he was pale before, he is now the colour of crushed bone.

“No fucking way, B. That’s impossible! We've spoken with him just-”

“Let me _fucking_ finish!” Bruce bellows, and Dick jerks back like he was slapped. “Ra’s knew more about us than we ever suspected. He used that argument and the resulting distance to take Tim right out from under our noses. The person who’s been running around, who we thought was Tim just keeping his distance, it was a League assassin. A stand in who knew _all of our codes,_ could enter _all of our servers._ We never even knew.”

“Jesus,” Dick whispered, horrified. “How… how did you…?”

“Ra’s called me to give him back to us. As a courtesy.” Bruce tried to say more, but he couldn’t make his voice work. He snapped his mouth shut as he began to cry.

“B. _B_ you’re scaring me. What happened to Tim? Is he still alive? Oh my god what _happened_ to Tim _?_ ”

Bruce clenches down on his anger. On his sorrow. On his shame.

“Tim’s body is all right, though he is weak. He was tied down for about two months of his stay, or that’s what I estimate from the footage. His mind though.” He wipes his eyes, looks down at the floor so he doesn’t have to look at Dick. “His mind is gone. He’s been a mindless automaton since I brought him home. _No._ Worse.”

“ _Worse?!_ ” comes Dick’s shrill reply. “What do you mean by _worse?!_ ”

Bruce collects his resolve, clenches his hands into fists until they hurt, until he hears cracks.

“He was raped. He was raped by Ra’s repeatedly. He was milked dry several times a day, probably for DNA samples. He was gang raped by Ra’s goddamned ninjas… repeatedly.” He shakes out his hands. Clenches them up again. “He has been conditioned. His body now wants... needs—” he chokes up, can’t go on. Looks up at Dick and meets his horrified gaze.

Dick stands up stiffly, stops, retches. Empties his stomach right onto the cave floor. He retches again until there’s not even bile coming up, and when he stands up his eyes are flinty, his face hard like Bruce has seldom seen him.

“Show me the footage.”

“I don’t think you should—”

“Show. Me. The footage.”

Bruce calls up the entire folder, video after video of Tim’s violation. Then he leaves Dick there and retreats up to Tim’s room.

***

Tim is crying, writhing on the pulsating dildo while Bruce sits next to him, dejected. Tim has not been happy since Bruce let the toy do all the stimulation. He has come, laboriously on the toy a few times, but he’s been thrashing and whining and crying ever since.

Bruce wants to help him, oh _does he ever_. He has been painfully hard since he walked up the stairs. But he needs to show this to Dick. Dick needs to see.

So he watches his crying son, itching… wanting so _badly_ to help.

***

Dick’s empty stomach is churning again by the time he finishes watching the footage. He had to skim through a few places. He can’t… oh god, poor Timmy! 

He wants to go up to his baby bird, to hold him and tell him everything will be alright, but seeing Bruce, seeing his reaction, he knows it won’t be. He’s terrified to see just how bad it is.

He looks up to another window in the top left corner of the screen Bruce has opened for him. It’s… it’s actually Tim, with Bruce sitting next to him.

Dick stares in mute horror as Tim writhes in an unmistakable way, hands reaching out, grabbing at Bruce’s thighs, trying to pull the older man closer while his vacant eyes stare into nothing.

Bruce, on the other hand, is staring right at the camera, jaws set.

Dick has no choice. He knows when he is being summoned.

***

He walks through the door, closing it behind him. Timmy shows no sign of having recognized him. Dick’s heart breaks just a little bit more.

“Okay, what’s the rest?” he asks, because with Bruce there is _always_ more.

“His body has been conditioned to expect sexual stimulation. I take it you saw the footage?”

“I saw enough,” Dick grinds out. He saw more than enough, and poor Timmy had to go through it all. “So what is it?”

“His body expects prostate stimulation multiple times a day. I built a remotely activated device that would help with that, only he did not take to it.” Bruce sighs. Swallows. Won’t meet Dick’s eyes. Looks down.

Oh fucking _hell, no_!

“You fucked your own _son?!_ ” he screams in horror.

“Adoptive,” Bruce grounds out, like boulders dragged over gravel. “And what was I to do? Let him suffer?! How cruel would _that_ be?”

Dick is dumbstruck. He cannot.

‘What the _fuck,_ Bruce?’ he wants to yell. He does. But… he looks at Timmy. His angry red, tearful, _desperate_ face.

And then Bruce flips down the covers and Dick’s mind spirals down down down into the murky waters where his terrible, horrible, no good thoughts live, because he can see Timmy’s pink little hole stretched around a dildo that has to be too big for him.

He doesn’t remember moving, but he is on Tim the next second, unclasping the harness. He pulls that _thing_ out of his little brother, who is clearly in pain, who is hurting and does not like this.

When it’s out and Tim is empty, when he should be happy to be free of that thing, lay back and rest, Tim’s whines pick up. His mouth turns down and he _sobs, wails_ like a banshee, an arm reaching out for him while the other is tearing at Bruce’s pants.

Bruce stands and looks Dick in the eyes. “I suggest you leave now if you do not want to see what Tim needs. But I was hoping you could help out. I cannot stay with him at all time.”

Dick stares mutely as Bruce pulls the wailing, uncoordinated body of his little brother to the edge of the bed, turns him around so he is on his knees.

He wants to turn away when he sees Bruce pull his sweats down, but resolutely doesn’t. Watches as Tim is mounted in a single thrust, wail choked off, ending in a few soft hiccoughs that peter off when Bruce starts to fuck into him _like a fucking jackhammer oh my god!_

He drops heavily down into the armchair under the window, too horrified to speak, to look away as he watches Bruce fuck his son. Dick's little brother. He wants to beg Bruce to slow down, to be gentle, because Timmy is so small, so frail, almost half of Bruce’s size. He is completely dwarfed by Bruce’s mass, by Bruce’s huge dick. By all accounts Tim should be too tiny to take it, but he _isn't_.

He watches mutely as Tim jerks, freezes, goes boneless while Bruce just fucks on without a care in the world. He thinks to intervene, but by the time he works up the courage, he sees Timmy rise up again untouched, face happy as can be as his cock bounces. At least he is happy, Dick thinks, and is instantly disgusted with himself.

Bruce fucks on while he looks over at Dick. “He needs about four orgasms per session to settle. If you pull out and he is still fussy, he is happy with prostate massage until he is fully empty.”

Dick wants to crawl out the window. “Why are you telling me this?!” And why while being balls deep in Timmy?

Bruce’s gaze is honest, and terribly agonized. He broodily fucks a vacantly drooling and gasping Tim, snapping his hips faster and faster while he stares Dick down. Oh god, Dick is so close to running to Kori to take him off of the fucking planet, because he can’t _even._

“I need someone to help me out with Tim, and it cannot be Jason. Can you _imagine_ the collateral damage? He would murder us both, go after Ra’s, get _himself_ murdered, and where would we be then? I know I can count on you, Dick. I need you to step up and help me.”

Dick buries his head in his hands, winces when Bruce groans and— _oh god oh god oh god_ — _finishes inside Timmy!_ Dick wants to die. He wants to die so damn much.

He curls up into a little ball when he hears shuffling, rustling and the little wet sounds of Bruce fucking his fingers into a mewling Tim.

At least Timmy is happy?

Oh god he is going to hell for this.

He jerks out of his churning, scary thoughts, when a hand lands on his shoulder.

“Dick.” Bruce says, but stops.

Dick looks up. Bruce is dressed again. Behind him Dick can see Tim laid out in bed, angelic and just a tiny bit rumpled, like nothing happened. Dick wants to tell Bruce this is fucked up, that this is not what he signed up for and that he _can’t_ , but the only thing that his addled brain comes up with is a broken “Holy incest, Batman!”

And Bruce crumples. Dick sees the way his shoulders sag, the lines as they are just a tiny bit deeper on his face. Bruce cannot shoulder this burden alone.

And Dick isn’t sure _he_ can, but it’s not like he has any other choice. So he does what he does best: jumps in with two feet and an optimistic attitude.

***

Bruce doesn’t call Dick in until the next day, when he absolutely cannot stay at home. Dick sits with Tim, holds his hand and tells him about his times in the circus for the umpteenth time while he waits and waits.

This way he feels less like a creep, and more like he’s waiting for sleeping beauty to get a boner.

It takes almost an hour from when Dick entered the room for Tim to start getting restless and tent up the sheets. Dick, dying a little inside, peels his little broth—he peels Tim out of his bed, turns him around and sets him down on all fours while he sets things up.

Following Bruce’s example he’s wearing sweats for easy access, _oh my god!_

He uses a lot of lubricant, has to wipe some off before he dribbles all over the bed and he has to change the sheets, too.

He hugs Tim, pulling him close as he slips a finger in. It slides smoothly, without resistance. He tries three, four… Tim takes it all. Dick lays his head against Tim’s bumpy spine while he lines his dick up with the boy’s well-prepped entrance and hesitates.

Is he really about to do this? About to fuck Tim, his little brother? Would Tim want him to, if he was still around?

Tim takes the decision from him as he pushes back, seeking stimulation, slides right onto Dick’s straining erection. Dick shudders. He wants to hate this, wants to hate having to do this, but it feels wonderful. Tim feels wonderful in his arms and on his cock, rocking a little, just a little, giving inquisitive noises.

He mans up. This isn’t about him. It’s not about anything but giving Tim whatever he needs, since they failed him so spectacularly for months. This is all for Tim’s comfort.

He begins to thrust, angling his hips slightly, watching and listening for Tim’s reactions. He learns the best ways to bring him off, to make him smile an open-mouthed, shiny smile as drool dribbles down with every thrust. He learns to hold it, to hold it just a little longer until Tim comes _just one more time_.

When Tim is empty and spent, eyes closed, cheeks pink, smile wide, Dick thinks it wasn’t that horrible. He made Tim happy, and that’s all that matters.

He takes the wipes and the bottle of lubricant with him. Nobody wants to upset poor Alfred. On that, he agrees with Bruce.

***

It fills Alfred’s heart with warmth how much Bruce and Richard care about young Timothy.

When Bruce brought him home, all broken and hurt, Alfred was ready to take a gun to the immortal madman. Just like he would have been ready to take a gun to the Joker, if it wouldn’t have destroyed the already fractured soul of his beloved foster son.

But since then, Bruce and Richard have been visiting Timothy’s bedside so often, it warms an old butler’s heart.

Alfred likes to read to Timothy. Usually Sherlock Holmes, because he knows the young man loved it once upon a time. Richard tells stories of his youth in the circus, at least, that’s what Alfred heard when he eavesdropped just for a little while. And Bruce… oh his heart breaks for his poor son.

Alfred tries to be discreet. He does. But he also loves his family and all the misfit boys and girls living under this roof. This is why he readily admits he has eavesdropped on Bruce visiting young Timothy before. He’s heard Bruce sobbing more times than he can count, telling Timothy how much he loves him, begging for his forgiveness.

It breaks an old butler’s heart, the love and the pain in that voice.

That’s why he is always courteous never to walk in on his boys spilling their hearts to Tim.

***

And thus, a routine is formed. Alfred talks and reads to Tim. Dick, when he has the time, drops in on Tim before his “urges” start up to tell him old stories. Bruce… Bruce broods. Then he fucks Tim. Then he broods again, begging his boy for his forgiveness.

The search for Ra’s continues, but without leads.

***

Dick and Bruce have tentatively formed shifts. Bruce takes care of Tim at night and the early mornings, Dick during the day. It suits them both. Bruce knows, has seen that Dick is trying to make Tim happy, that he treats Tim more like a partner, another broken little bird to nurse back to health.

Bruce cannot do that. Tim isn’t a partner, he is his son. ( _Adopted,_ his mind whispers unbidden, _of age._ ) Unconsenting, he thinks back, tamping it down. It’s not alright, how beautiful he finds Tim, how lovely, how satisfying his body’s needs is never a chore.

He knows Tim would never forgive him.

Yet still, after each time he defiles his brightest son, he begs for his forgiveness. He tells him how much he loves him. He tells Tim how sorry he is for failing him so.

***

Tim drifts. At times he could swear he smells Alfred’s prized roses. Other times, he hears the name Zitka and gets _catapulted_ up, higher and higher to the surface. He thinks it’s been a good long while since he has been up, but he hopes, oh how he hopes that he got saved. That he doesn’t come up to another milking session or Ra’s stroking his sperm-bloated stomach.

The first thing he sees is the wooden shelves of his room, above his bed. It’s a strange position to be in, to almost be able to touch them. Tim has always been too short to reach them without standing on his bed, it’s something Dick mocked him about endlessly.

Why is he now tall enough to reach them while sitting down?

Because he can feel his legs dangling, spread out in a heap as he is shaken, up and down in a familiar motion. He comes without warning, without even realizing the buildup was happening, hearing the soft grunts he would never forget.

He tilts his head to the side, careful, and clocks Bruce’s face over his shoulder, agony stamped into every line of his mouth and forehead.

Tim turns back, looks down. He can see a part of Bruce he had never seen before outside the showers (because he had eyes, of course he did) pistoning up against Tim, into Tim, oh god, _he can feel it!_

Tim is so shocked (and aroused, because how could he not be, he’s being fucked by Batman!) he slips under again, no matter how hard he tries to claw his way back out.

***

He doesn’t know how long it takes to climb back up, and he is actively trying this time. Time has lost its meaning to him here, but he really, really hopes he’s not lying to himself by replacing Ra’s and his ninjas with people much more palatable.

When he opens his eyes again, he starts doubting that.

He is in Dick’s arms. He can tell that from the get-go. Dick’s hugs are legendary. And now Tim’s mind has conjured that and combined it with sex, and he’s not sure what to think of the situation. He is on his back, from the position of the chandelier, his ass is at the edge of the bed while Dick ruts into him, saying “that’s it Timmy, that’s lovely, you are so lovely today!”

Tim wouldn’t know about that, but the octopus-hug and the praise do wonders for his libido. He comes hard as his head goes back, vision whiting out and down down down he goes _again,_ goddamn it.

He tries to claw himself back up again, because he never knew he wanted sex with Dick this much, and screams into the void when he can’t.

***

He drifts up effortlessly with Alfred. The older man is reading Sherlock Holmes to him with his lovely lovely British accent and Tim looks over at him, takes him in.

Tim can feel his body now, the tip of his toes, his fingers, the top of his head. He pulls an arm from under the covers and reaches over to touch the old man’s hand that’s resting on the bed, alarming the poor old butler.

Alfred drops the book in his haste to come to Tim’s side, to touch his face, to give him one of his famed hugs. (Not just Dick has those. Oh god, _Dick!_ )

“My dear boy!” Alfred says, choking up with tears. “We have all been so worried!”


	4. Holy Consent, Batman!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Much-Awaited Climax!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still want to thank bionerd2point0, who made sure you guys get the last part on Halloween, and not like... Christmas. :D
> 
> I also thank Satairev, who also read through this monstrosity and removed a shit ton of commas, too. I swear most of my issues are the commas.
> 
> My stomach is much better, thanks for all who worried! But obviously my other health issue reared its head. Luckily that's not hindering me from writing weird stuff, so.

Tim is kitten-weak and unable to walk without support, which he only realizes when he tries to get out of bed and he drops like a sack of potatoes. He ends up being helped back into bed by Alfred, who can barely take his eyes off Tim to _sprint_ for the door.

Tim, meanwhile, feels a certain telling drippage in his nether regions that cements his hunch that what he saw the first two times he tried to resurface was the truth, however odd and outlandish that may be.

He hears voices as Alfred comes back. Dick is the first in after the old butler, red and bright eyed, hanging back even when Tim reaches for him. Tim tries not to deflate, but it must show because Dick gets over whatever held him back. He bounds over and sweeps Tim up in one of his famed embraces, and Tim _melts_.

Bruce enters, a silent presence as he observes Tim, and Dick hugging Tim until Dick relents and Tim reaches out for him too, because what else is he supposed to do? He wants Bruce’s hug just as much, if not more.

It takes Alfred asking if something’s wrong for Bruce to move, and then he is sweeping Tim up hard, crushing him against his chest and Tim just goes boneless. That small, terrified part of his mind that was fearing it was all just a trick of Ra’s or his own addled brain unclenches. Nobody can fake Bruce’s hugs.

Tim grabs hold of Bruce’s shirt and refuses to let go. He knows he should. He knows it’s weird, but he can’t. While Bruce is holding him, he knows he is safe.

“All right,” Bruce says above him, ceasing his attempts to detach from Tim, “all right then.” He sits them both down on the bed.

Tim looks up at Alfred and Dick then, and their pity hurts like a knife to the stomach.

“I’m fine.” He tells them, summons up enough strength to push Bruce away, even though he wants to cling to him like a limpet. “I really am.”

Tim feels a broad hand land on his shoulder, hears “Alfred, would you mind bringing something for Tim to eat? I think I saw some cheesecake in the fridge?”

“Of course.” Alfred nods with a kind smile, only the tightness around his eyes belying what Tim already knows.

They will have _The Talk._

The door barely closes behind the elderly butler before Bruce withdraws his hand.

“We need to talk, Tim.”

Tim wants to fling himself back in Bruce’s arms, wants to demand Dick come and hug him too until he disappears from the world, sandwiched between his family. He doesn’t. He looks up at Bruce and Dick instead, all bravado he doesn’t feel.

“If it is about Ra’s…”

“It is partly because of Ra’s.” Bruce agrees gently.

Tim sighs. “Fine. But we better get on with it before Alfred gets back.”

Bruce shares a dark look with Dick. He frowns.

“How much do you remember?” he prompts gently. Still maddeningly gently.

Tim closes his eyes to strengthen his resolve. “I was kidnapped by Ra’s, held in an underground cave system. Somewhere warm. I tried to escape, but couldn’t. After about a month I landed myself in his infirmary. I managed to pilfer a scalpel and tried to commit suicide, but they discovered me before it was too late. Ra’s nursed me back to health in hopes of breaking me. When I rebuked him, he r-raped me. After that he installed me in a… chair. When I was… there… they harvested… they have enough of my DNA samples to make an army of me. I was also raped again.” Tim takes a shaky breath, wrings his hands. “I’m not sure how I got home.”

When he feels composed enough to look at them, Bruce and Dick are both looking at anywhere but him.

“About three months after he kidnapped you, Ra’s called me,” Bruce says quietly, his voice cold. Hard. Angry. “He told me he wished to return you to me. Until he told me you were missing… we didn’t even know. None of us noticed.” Tim can hear the guilt oozing from every word. 

He wants to tell Bruce not to beat himself up over this, that it wasn’t his fault, but Bruce plows on. 

“When I brought you home… even on the batplane, I…”

He stops. Curls up. Buries his head in his hands.

 _Oh_. Tim thinks he knows where this is going. “Bruce? I think—”

“Please just listen, Tim,” Bruce cuts him off, then straightens up, face awful.

Tim wants to reach out, to tell Bruce it is ok, that he doesn’t mind, but knows it’s not yet time.

“What Ra’s did to you. I did it to you too. When he gave you to me…” he swallows hard, clenches his teeth. Sighs. “Your body was conditioned to expect stimulus. You didn’t take to inanimate… and animate objects. So I did… I did things no father would ever do to his son.”

Tim doesn’t have a chance to respond as Bruce… breaks. Falls forward, elbows on knees, his face in his hands and lets out a heart-wrenching _sob._

He wants to reach over, but Dick speaks up, and Tim has to look at him, because _his voice!_

“I did it too, Tim,” Dick admits, his voice rough and then he starts crying too.

Tim doesn’t know who to comfort first, so he does both.

“I didn’t mind,” he tells them honestly.

There’s a twitch from Bruce that he sees in the periphery of his vision while Dick stares back at him, mouth open mid-apology. It’s a really unattractive look, but Tim’s not telling him that.

“You don’t know, but I tried to wake up before. It was just… it’s hard, after months of going away, you know?” He looks at Bruce, who stares up at him with red-rimmed, disbelieving eyes. “I was with you when I woke up first,” he tells Bruce, “but I drifted off before I could tell you. Woke up with Dick next, but I fell under again before I could say anything. So… I knew. I knew this already, and it’s _ok_. I don’t mind, I swear I don’t.”

Both men are staring at him like Tim grew another head. Tim tries not to feel put on the spot, like he is somehow twisted to like getting fucked by his adoptive dad and brother. (Because he does, dammit, and it was _really_ nice. Sex with _both_ Dick and Bruce was nice.)

“Tim…” Bruce trails off, his tone soft, gentle, but he sounds like he swallowed gravel instead. “Tim you absolutely cannot forgive me. Because… because I didn’t do it just because you needed it, I liked… I liked _fucking_ you. You _can’t…_ ”

Tim reaches over, muscles protesting, and rests his hand on Bruce’s thigh. 

Bruce stares at him impassively, eyes still red-rimmed and wet. He doesn’t move a single muscle.

“ _You_ don’t get it,” Tim says gently. “I _liked_ it, too.” He looks over to Dick, who stares back, frozen and still open-mouthed. “I _really_ liked it, with _both of you_. I _liked_ getting fucked by you.” He doesn’t dare to look back at Bruce when he adds (because Dick is always the safer choice), “I wouldn’t mind doing it again, when I’m properly awake, either.”

Before either man can react or say a single thing, the door opens and Alfred enters with a tray laden with absolutely _everything._ Tim tries not to show his disappointment, because… oh. He’s hungry after all.

He reaches for the cheesecake as soon as the tray is set down and stuffs his face until he is bursting.

When Alfred picks up the tray and leaves, Dick goes with him, only to return a moment later.

“He’ll give us a little time to talk,” he says to Bruce and sits down in the armchair across from Tim.

Bruce stands and sits down next to Dick. Tim’s heart sinks.

They both stare at him, faces deadly serious.

“Tim,” Bruce begins, “you’ve gone through a very traumatic experience, and—”

“We’ve all gone through very traumatic experiences. We’ve all been mindfucked to hell and back. We’ve breathed Ivy’s spores so many times we can spot it from the _smell_. Don’t you dare to tell me this is different!”

“Tim. This _is_ different,” Bruce says anyway. “This was rape.”

Tim wracks his tired brain for arguments besides _‘but I liked it’_. Is food coma really a thing? But then he's got it. “What Ra’s did, that was rape. What you and Dick did… that was something that my body needed, correct?”

They both nod.

Tim plows on. “Good. Then what you two did was not rape. I wasn’t able to consent, but if I’d been awake I would have. You were doing what was necessary, even if you enjoyed it.” He holds up a hand to stave off the protests he sees coming a mile away. “Those are facts. You cannot refute them. But please let me finish?”

Both men nod. Tim knows he has only this one chance before Bruce clams up and runs away. Before Bruce enforces the no-touching/no-fucking rule on Dick too, even against their wishes.

“What Ra’s did… it was horrible. And disgusting. And I did not like it, did not grow to like it throughout those 3 months. I did not lose my judgement. I know what I like, and I liked it with you two. I felt loved and cared for and not for a single moment did I feel unsafe or uncomfortable. I liked it. And… and you have my blanket permission for all those times. I’m saying it was all right,” he squirms and comes to the realization that he is getting hard under the sheets. “And, actually…”

It’s Dick who realizes first what’s going on. He looks absolutely horrified. Turns red and refuses to meet Tim’s eyes.

 _Oh for fuck’s sake._ Like he didn’t fuck Tim in this very room, on this very bed, countless times.

When Bruce realizes, he jumps like he got stung by an army of bees, walks to one of the shelves, pulls down a box, sets it down next to Tim.

“I made it for you, when I brought you home. You… didn’t like it back then, but you’re awake now and can use it yourself.”

Tim’s heart sinks. He’s being rejected. And he tried so, so hard.

Doesn’t mean he can’t go for a last-ditch effort. “What if I still don’t like it? My body, I mean.”

Bruce stares hard at him, considering.

“If you cannot make use of it after an hour, I’ll be in the cave.” He says as he stands up from the bed, distancing himself from Tim.

Tim knows what this is. He can hardly leave his bed. Bruce is giving him a near-impossible task to gauge how much he _really_ wants it. Tim stares forlornly at Bruce’s retreating back, at Dick’s sad look before the door closes and he’s left alone.

Then he opens the box to stare hard at the state of the art silicone vibrator with straps and a… is that a bat sigil? _Really Bruce?_ What the…

He sighs, defeated and turns the damn thing on. Almost drops it. The vibrating he expected, but… the thrusting? Well, that’s _new_. Better than his old toys, that’s for sure.

In minutes he rises to full hardness, unbidden. He reaches for the bottle of lube in the box, popping the cap open. 

He tries jerking off, but it’s not working. Ever since he figured out what his dick was for, he’s been good at getting off fast, but now his body is different. His triggers are different. Uncharted territory. Not as much fun as one would expect.

He moves his hands down, past his dick and balls and tentatively draws a line to his hole. It’s still a bit wet. Sensitive… and open. Well, not open, but he can push in 3 of his fingers without feeling any tightness or resistance. That’s _definitely_ new.

He pulls out his fingers, lubes up the frankly humbling length of the vibrator and positions it against his hole. And then he pauses. _If that thing goes up my ass without ripping me in half I’m eating my staff,_ he thinks. And then he pushes a little, just to test the waters.

It goes up in a single slow push. Tim is _fascinated_. Floored, but intrigued.

He pushes the first button that vibrates. It’s… nice. Nothing special.

He pushes the other button that makes the thing piston in him, and he has to scramble with sticky fingers to hold the thing in, because it’s already worming its way out after the first push. _Oops_. The feeling is not weird, and it’s definitely big enough to feel like Tim is stretched tight over it like a glove, but… it’s meh. It’s just nice, but he is not coming.

And he really, really wants to come. Seriously. It’s like a switch has been flipped and he _must_ come. He whimpers and squirms. It’s not _working_.

He lets the thing worm its way out of him, sliding out wetly and squirming until Tim manages to hit the right button, and then Tim just stares at the door.

He thinks about trying to summon Bruce, because he couldn’t be serious about Tim making that trek down to the cave in his condition, but knows Bruce wouldn’t come. Or if he would… he wouldn’t give Tim what he wanted.

So Tim clenches his teeth and gets out of the bed, holding onto whatever he can find so he doesn’t end up on the floor. He isn’t eager to crawl down to the cave with an erection that could cut the man of steel.

He gets out of his room, erection rubbing against soft cotton. He knows he just has to get to the closest hidden tunnel. Once he gets into the elevator, he’s golden. He holds on in sheer stubbornness. He can’t fault Bruce for wanting to make sure, but he really wishes he didn’t.

He groans as he is hit by a wave of need so strong he falls to his knees. Curses. Crawls on all fours to the hidden panel down the corridor, pulls himself up against the wall to hit the hidden keypad. The codes have not changed, at least, and he is in.

He flops against the elevator wall until he is down and prays to whatever deity might grace him with a smile that Bruce is alone down there. Or maybe with Dick. But no Alfred, please, please, _please_ god.

Tim gets out, plastering himself against the elevator shaft as he looks around. He can see Bruce sitting in his chair at the batcomputer. No Alfred. He hears tinkling in the background coming up from the garage area. Probably Dick then.

If only he could get to Bruce, but there is nothing to hold onto.

His muscles are already screaming, his thigh is spasming, but he clenches his teeth and ignores them. He’s desperately hard. So, so hard. His nightshirt is tenting obscenely at the front, wet spot spreading as he’s wracked with need and arousal. The insides of his thighs are sticky with lubricant, and there is _drippage_ … Tim thinks it might be more than just lubricant, there must be semen mixed in with it, gravity giving it the green light to ooze out sluggishly. He swallows. Thinks.

There’s a rolling chair at one of the stations. Hard back. Capable of supporting Tim. He could sit down in it and roll himself over, sure, but… he’s quite sure the chair would be absolutely _ruined_.

He stumbles his way over to the chair, grabbing onto it with both hands before he faceplants into leather over hard plastic. He knows the racket he made must have alerted Bruce, and hopes he won’t have to walk over now.

When he pushes himself back up to look at Bruce, the older man is staring at him from where he sits. He makes no move to help Tim, just stares at him with the strength of a burning supernova.

Tim swallows. Feels a glob of _something_ oozing down his leg. _Ick._ He holds onto the back of the chair as he stumbles, drags and shuffles his way over to Bruce, grabbing onto the table to let the chair go and roll back away.

Bruce is still staring at him, face unreadable. Tim stares back, wheezing, hard as a rock, dripping lubricant and possibly come from his stretched passage and _does he have to beg? Really Bruce?_

***

Bruce is still reeling. What Tim said… No. The boy must still be addled from having been away for so long. Even if Bruce is secretly glad not to have a broken, terrified boy on his hands.

Tim would learn to use the vibrator, and that would be the end of it. Bruce will learn to cope with it. With his… urges.

He _will._

Tim showing up, weak but still determined, is not what he expected. His mind screams that he miscalculated, that he… He tamps it down. For the first time his boy woke up, Bruce looks, _really_ looks at Tim.

He can see the determination, the sheer desperation of his boy as he tries to reach him, and he recognizes it for what it is. Tim has his mind set. He knows what he wants and he will damn well kill himself for it, if that’s what it takes.

Bruce wants to get up, to rush to his boy, to cradle him close and never let go, but he is unable to move a single muscle. He feels pinned to the chair as he stares at Tim as he makes his way slowly towards him.

His boy is a mess. His hair is a rat’s nest, face blotchy red from exertion. The nightshirt is wet with precome and tenting obscenely, the insides of his thighs flash wetly, reflecting the lights. Bruce hardens at the thought of what might be dripping out of him.

He knows he is a terrible father. He knows he will go to hell for this. But he knows this is proof that Tim wants this just as much as Bruce does.

He watches, frozen, as Tim shuffles his way to him. Tries to work out how to say… everything. How to ask for forgiveness even now, because he still feels guilty, to have made Tim go to these extreme lengths to get what he needs. Because of Bruce’s pride.

But he can’t. Instead, he pulls out tissues from the bottom of the desk and wipes the boy’s legs up while he leans against the desk.

And then he says, “If you want this, climb on my lap. I’m not doing it for you.”

Bruce dies a little inside when Tim looks at him, fixes him with the biggest, hardest frown and uses the desk’s edge to propel himself against Bruce, arms and legs scrambling for purchase until he is up and settled, smooshed against Bruce’s chest, wheezing like he ran the marathon.

All it takes is a little bit of fumbling with his pants and pulling Tim up with one arm around his middle before his cockhead touches his boy’s hole, and then he just gently lets go and Tim sinks down with a small _gasp_ , gets gently impaled on Bruce's length.

A happy gasp, he checks, as Tim smiles up at him with eyes full of wonder.

Bruce has to look away then as he grips Tim’s hips and starts fucking up into him while his boy’s arms settle around him, fingers curling into his shirt and head falling against his shoulder. Tim’s not quiet. He moans happily and gasps as Bruce fucks him, saying “yes, Bruce” and “more, Bruce” until Bruce leans over to grab some tissues. He barely has enough time to wrap it around Tim before the boy is off, shooting his first load of their union.

“Please try not to come on my clothes,” he murmurs into the boy’s ear gently while he fucks him through the aftershocks. “Alfred would not be as understanding as Dick.”

Tim nods, accepts the tissues, while his other hand still clings to Bruce’s shirt. It warms his heart, unfreezing that horrified part of him…

Bruce sees Dick staring up at him from the garage. Doesn’t know what to say. They tried. They both did. It was Tim, who chose.

He cradles Tim close, kisses the top of his head as he fucks him through another orgasm.

Well. It’s not like it’ll be a hardship. They just have to be careful Jason _never_ learns of this.

***

Tim is mellow. Happy. Orgasmic… wait no. Just plain orgasming.

Wait no. There is nothing _plain_ about this. Best damn sex of his life (that he was awake for). Ten out of ten, would sit on Bruce again.

He whimpers as he comes _again,_ and holy shit, Bruce has a jackhammer in his pants and the will of gods, because he has fucked Tim through three orgasms and he has not come even _once!_

Tim knows it’s something Bruce has done before, probably a habit by now, but he still wants to be _good_ for the older man. He wants Bruce to come undone _by Tim._

Tim really just wants to see Bruce come.

It happens like this: Bruce shifts Tim back as he leans over, thrusts speeding up until Tim’s head flops back by the sheer power of it. Tim comes again, dry, and Bruce just lets loose. Tim is pushed onto the desk, back on the keyboard as Bruce _pounds_ into him.

Tim watches as Bruce loses control, eyes burning hotter than Superman’s twin lasers. He reaches up a shaky hand to touch Bruce’s face and Bruce is coming. Just like that.

Tim feels full (he’ll have to check how much men Bruce’s age can come because that’s… that’s a lot. Whoa). When Bruce pulls out, he picks Tim up and carries him to the shower. And joins him.

It’s the first time they could have fun in the shower, and Tim is too tired to even try. Tim’s really unhappy about it (he's had _fantasies_ about the batcave showers), even when Bruce gently and lovingly cleans him out, then bundles him up in towels and takes him to the locker rooms.

He gently towels Tim dry and dresses him in a pair of Bruce’s own sweats and shirt. They hang on his current frame, which annoys Tim, because it was so hard to put on that muscle, dammit!

There are no words spoken, but Bruce is very gentle. He’s smiling at Tim, whenever he catches his eyes, and it makes Tim feel warm and fuzzy inside.

He reaches up when Bruce picks him up again, his arms go around the older man’s neck, legs around his waist as he carries Tim back to Bruce’s station, sets him down gently in his own chair (that Tim just got _fucked_ in) as he pulls out a headset. Offers it.

Tim takes it. He’ll gladly be the voice in their ears tonight.

He puts on the headset and curls up, waiting to make sure both of his lovers come back home, safe and sound.

***

Beloved drifts. It’s warm and soft in the tank, with Ra’s voice drifting in as he is reading softly from outside the glass. He reads poems, sonnets, books and novels. He whispers to his Beloved, and Beloved is yearning to be out of the tank, to be with Him.

“Soon,” Ra’s whispers, hand stroking the glass separating them. “Soon.”


End file.
